


the contest

by kirkspocks



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Masturbation, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkspocks/pseuds/kirkspocks
Summary: “Okay,” Elliot said. He’s still stiff in Leon’s arms, although he hadn’t woken up that way, and couldn’t remember ever relaxing in the first place. The missing memory frightened him, and he wanted Leon’s words to ground him back in reality. “What episode is this?”“The Contest,” Leon said, his voice tinged with surprise, because Elliot didn’t usually—almost never—showed any intrigue in Leon’s Seinfeld analysis. “S’about all of them betting on who can go the longest without masturbating.”





	the contest

A few weeks into their friendship, there was an evening when Leon and Elliot happened to be the last two inmates showering. Elliot had only glanced over, quick and shy, at Leon’s body. Afterwards, wrapped in skimpy towels, they brushed their teeth together in silence, gathered their sleep clothes, walked toward their separate cells, and said good night.

That was enough to motivate Elliot to shove his hand down his boxers after the guards shut the lights off. It was the first time he’d even tried to touch himself since he’d been locked away. There wasn’t much to inspire desire, everything drab and grimy. 

Just as Elliot started, though, hand wrapped around his cock, he heard a guard’s heavy footsteps, the crackle of a radio. As the noise faded down the hall, it mutated into Mr. Robot’s chastising whispers. _Really, kid? You got your ass landed in jail just to jerk off?_

And then Elliot heard the creaking of beds and blankets rustling, a few coughs here and there. Someone crying, quietly. A toilet flush. The distant laughter of wardens in their offices, enjoying coffee on their night shifts. _If this is what does it for you, be my guest._

Elliot hadn't tried since then.

As the days passed, it became harder and harder to drift off into sleep.

But Elliot convinced himself that his loop didn’t provide the time for it; he didn’t need the unnecessary stress of touching himself in secret, other inmates and guards surrounding him on all sides. Any deviation from his routine would create a slippery-slope into some unconstructed disaster. He’d been on a relatively smooth path for so long that it was becoming difficult to tell the days apart, and he needed to keep it that way.

During free time, Elliot sat outside with Leon, watching a basketball game in a lame attempt to stop his mind from flickering all over the place. Sometimes Leon would talk to him, never expecting responses—making it easy on Elliot, comfortable—and other times they’d sit quietly, eyes tracking the movement of the players. 

On this particular day, though, Elliot’s lack of sleep had crept up behind him, smothering him in a wave of frustration and drowsiness. The screech of sneakers on concrete was grating, and the banal chattering of the other inmates was amplified, every conversation layered up on top of each other, babbling nonsense into Elliot’s ears. It was too much all at once, and Elliot felt his throat constricting. Choking on air.

Despite all his worry of breaking routine, Elliot lept up from the bleachers and headed back indoors, desperate to find some quiet somewhere, anywhere.

Now Elliot sat in his cell, his bony spine against the concrete wall, stewing in silence. The guards didn’t like inmates to stay in their cells during free time, but it wasn’t prohibited. For the past couple weeks, Elliot had been glad to be locked away, following this seemingly endless loop, an uncomplicated existence. Lately, though, his head had been swimming. Half of the time he was moving on autopilot. Exhausted, moving on autopilot. He wanted to feel present again, wanted to know where he was and what he’d done without looking back into his journal.

“Hey, Elliot. You disappeared on me.”

Elliot snapped to attention. Saw the world slide back into place, bright and crisp. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been staring absently, his mind beginning to float away again. Leon stood in the doorway of his cell. The daily bustle of the prison cleared up, no longer a distant echo.

The word “sorry” bubbled up in the back of Elliot’s mind, and he wanted to say it, let Leon know that he hadn’t meant to run off without warning, but his mouth wouldn’t open.

“Gettin' a little worried about you, man,” Leon said. “You been sleeping enough?”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah, I know. But have you been sleeping enough?”

Elliot looked up at him with tired, glazed eyes. With a sigh, Leon sat himself on Elliot’s bed and bent down to take off his shoes.

“C’mere.” Leon swung his legs up on Elliot’s bed, then patted the space between them. He sighed when Elliot sat back, eyeing him with suspicion. “What, man? Don’t look at me like that. C’mere and sit down. We gonna meditate until you chill out.”

Cautiously, Elliot shifted from his position against the wall and crawled over to Leon, settling between his legs. For a moment, there was awkward, tilting silence. Elliot mumbled, “Okay.”

“But I don’t actually know shit about meditation,” Leon said, “so I’m gonna talk about _Seinfeld.”_

“God.”

“What? You always zone out whenever I talk about it, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

Leon had a point. It wasn’t that Elliot found Leon’s _Seinfeld_ analysis boring—maybe a little bit—but Leon’s voice soothed Elliot, made his own mind quiet down and focus in on only him. 

*

“And George’s mom is in the hospital, right, and she’s mad, tellin’ George he has to see a therapist, because she walked in on him touching himself,” Leon said. His voice had become a steady white noise, lulling Elliot into calm. “Like, that’s crazy—if I walked in on you, I’d be like, ‘Right on, Elliot, keep doin’ you.’”

Elliot’s eyes widened, darted around the room, and he scrambled in place until he sat upright between Leon’s legs. As he reoriented himself, feeling as if he'd just come down from levitating above his own body, he choked out, “What?”

Leon hummed, leaned forwards looked at Elliot. “You fall asleep there for a second?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m telling you about this episode, so be quiet and relax,” Leon said, gently pulling Elliot back against his chest.

“Okay,” Elliot said. He’s still stiff in Leon’s arms, although he hadn’t woken up that way, and couldn’t remember ever relaxing in the first place. The missing memory frightened him, and he wanted Leon’s words to ground him back in reality. “What episode is this?”

“ _The Contest,”_ Leon said, his voice tinged with surprise, because Elliot didn’t usually—almost never—showed any intrigue in Leon’s _Seinfeld_ analysis. “S’about all of them betting on who can go the longest without masturbating.”

Some part at the back of Elliot’s brain supplied the idea of Leon walking in on Elliot doing just that. His disjointed thoughts, which scattered away when he woke up, re-connected: Leon had been describing George’s plight, a grown man who'd gotten caught masturbating and mocked for it. A fear Elliot had harbored, leaving him wanting before he tossed and turned into sleep each night.

But if it were Leon to walk in on Elliot, he wouldn’t be mad. He'd encourage Elliot, however playfully, like he’d said. _Right on, Elliot._ The exact opposite of what Mr. Robot had said, all that time ago. Elliot’s insides turned.

Leon continued, “And that’s what’s crazy, right, is that they never say the word ‘masturbate’ in the whole episode, ‘cause it’s nineties television, or whatever. But they don’t need to, because after someone loses the bet, they show a scene of ‘em sleeping all peacefully. Everyone else is tossin’ and turnin’ and shit.”

The talk of masturbating began to make Elliot squirm. Leon was warm and heavy behind him, and they were pressed up together close, and Elliot so badly wanted to be touched, by his own hand or by Leon’s. In this position, Leon could easily slide his hand between Elliot’s legs. All he'd have to do is nudge his dick, just a whisper of a touch, and Elliot would probably come in his underwear, desperate and pathetic.

“Hey,” Leon said, chuckling. He patted Elliot’s leg, a gesture that might’ve been purely friendly if it weren’t for how close his hand was to Elliot’s inner thigh. “You must be real relaxed, cuz. Guess my meditation worked.”

Elliot hadn't noticed he'd gotten hard, just from being inside his own head, but when he looks down it's obvious, the shape of his cock outlined in the horrendous orange of the jumpsuit.

Leon pulled Elliot in to his chest, like he didn't want to let go, then said, “You want me to leave you alone for a little bit, Elliot?”

“No,” Elliot exhaled, gripping Leon’s arm tight. His face hurt, red and burning with embarrassment.

“Aight. Well, do what you gotta do.”

“Here?” Elliot asked. “Now?”

“Sure, if you want. I'm blocking the view. No one can see, and I won’t judge.”

Despite the stretch of silence between them, Leon didn’t backtrack. Elliot wanted to say yes. He went over Leon’s offer a few times, then said, “I can't.”

“That's okay. Just wait ‘till tonight, like the rest of us.” Leon chuckled.

“I've tried,” Elliot said, placing his hand over his lap in a half-hearted attempt to cover himself. “Everything feels too loud, too public. I can't.”

“What do you usually do?” Leon asked. “What do you do during the day, if your thoughts get too loud?”

“Distract myself.” Elliot turned his head, looked down to where Leon held onto his side, his grip warm and sturdy. “My mind gets quieter when I spend time with you. Our routine.”

“Is it quiet now?”

“Yeah,” Elliot mumbled. He toyed with the waistband of his pants.

“Do you want to?” Leon asked, quiet and vague.

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Leon said. As easy as anything, as if they’d just agreed to play a game of cards. “Then I'm not stopping you, man.”

 

*

Elliot shucked his shirt up, revealing his navel. He tugged his pants so they sat low on his waist. The cell was dim and close to the end of the hallway, allowing for some semblance of privacy, but even at night it was never enough to convince Elliot there weren’t hundreds of eyes on him at all times.

Curled up with his back against Leon’s chest, though, nestled in his arms, Elliot momentarily forgot where he was. Leon shielded him from the open hallway, from the ugly fluorescents, from the eyes of guards and inmates, from surveillance cameras.

“You been eating enough?” Leon placed a thumb on the taut skin above Elliot’s hipbone.

Elliot’s eyes remained fixed on Leon’s hand. “I eat lunch with you every day.”

“Barely. Taking a few bites and pushing your food around doesn’t count.”

“Food’s gross,” Elliot grumbled. He noticed he was shivering, overreacting to the simple back-and-forth rubbing of Leon’s thumb. They sat quietly, barely moving. The usual noises of the prison seemed to have migrated outdoors.

Elliot relaxed enough to lower his hand between his thighs, and he rubbed himself, gently, through the fabric of his boxers, grabbed hold of himself and squeezed. It felt nice to give in after weeks of failed attempts.

He closed his eyes, shut out the concrete walls of his cell, the cramped and disgusting space he was confined to. Pretended it was only him and Leon, in the middle of nothingness, a blank space for the two of them.

Elliot pushed down his boxers until they bunched up at his ankles. Even without opening his eyes, he felt ridiculous, stretched out on a too-small cot. His skinny body and socked feet.   

After a few even breaths, Elliot took his cock in his hand and stroked himself, loose and slow. It was certainly not how he usually got off, but Elliot quickly found himself thickening up, aching.

He opened eyes eyes, then, and watched himself as if he hadn't done this a million times before. Pre-ejaculate already gathered at the tip, and it was difficult, suddenly, to keep quiet. Elliot let out a shaking sigh and tightened his grip. The sensation choked another noise out of him, and he tilted his hips up, pushed back against Leon, further into his arms.

Leon breathed heavily, and Elliot could feel the subtle shifting of Leon’s hips against his back.

Elliot was into it deep, now, and he wondered why he didn't just give in before, just shut his eyes tight and rub off once the lights went out. He wasn't sure, though, that he'd have been able to shut out Mr. Robot, shut up the staticky babbling running through his brain, without Leon there beside him.

Kicking his legs slightly, squirming in Leon's lap, Elliot stretched himself out, arched his hips and sped up his hand. Another moan left his lips, and Leon rubbed little circles on Elliot's bare skin, on his stomach first, then swept his hands up to his ribs, just feeling, exploring.

A shout echoed from somewhere the hall. Elliot froze and stilled his hand, rigid and afraid, imagining the numerous scenarios in which they get caught and punished and shamed. He could hear everything again, the daily bustle of the prison during free time: deep voices, guards on their walkies, the buzzing lights, doors clanging open and shut. He was sweating and shaking.

"S'okay, Elliot," Leon said. The noises drown away, leaving only Leon at the center of it all. "Nobody here but me."

Elliot nodded and started up again, keenly aware of the slick noises his fist made in the confines of the cell, the weak creaking of the cot below them.

Another groan rumbled in his throat, and Leon only encouraged him, whispering, “That's it, keep going,” into Elliot’s ear, like he’s proud of him. His lips and soft voice making Elliot shiver.

“F-fuck.” Elliot rocked his hips in time with his strokes, his cock twitching and leaking over his belly. He wanted Leon to say more to him, to keep talking into his ear, but the request manifests in a hiccuping sob.

“You really needed this, huh,” Leon remarked. “Look like you're about to burst.”

“I am,” Elliot said, voice rasping. “I'm so close.”

“Don't let me stop you.”

Elliot stroked faster and rougher, but he remained on the edge of it all. “I can't,” he muttered. 

“It's all right,” Leon said. “I got you.”

“No, I can't—” Elliot gasped, raised his hips off the bed. “Touch me.”

Elliot heard the smile in Leon’s voice as he said, “I am touching you,” and drifted his hands over Elliot’s bare chest, let his thumbs drag over his nipples.

“Fuck you,” Elliot groaned, and Leon laughed. Elliot moved his wrist faster to indicate what he meant. “Here. Please. Touch me.”

Leon did the bare minimum, supplied a loose fist for Elliot to use, to fuck into, but it was enough. Elliot watched himself push into the circle of Leon’s hand, the tip sliding in and out of view. And then Leon pressed a kiss to Elliot’s neck, just below his ear, and Elliot twisted to place his mouth on Leon’s, messy and quick, the angle hurting Elliot’s neck. Elliot broke the kiss to gasp and groan, until he was coming in long, hard spurts, spilling over Leon’s hand.

He all but collapsed back into Leon’s arms, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, oddly proud of himself, satisfied. Not mortified, like he suspected he'd feel.

“Hey,” Leon said. “Cover up so I can clean the mess you made.”

“Your fault,” Elliot muttered, pulling up his boxers. He felt elated, like some kind of high, and suddenly he doesn't care who sees him. Leon shimmies out from under him and retrieves a few paper towels from beside the cell’s sink.

“Feelin’ better now?”

Elliot nodded, cleaned himself up lazily. “Thanks,” he said, voice small and tired.

“Anytime.” Leon clapped him on the shoulder, kept his hand there and squeezed, a grin blooming over his face, sappy and unapologetic. “No more tossin’ and turnin’ at night, all right?”

Elliot knew that he meant it. Leon would be there to help him out, if he needed it. And next time, Elliot imagined, he could could return the favor.

“All right.”

**Author's Note:**

> i saw leon for those two seconds in s3e3 and remembered this damn fic i wrote ages ago but never posted!!
> 
> catch me @ kirkspocks.tumblr.com ;-)


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